


Five Nights Out (and One Night In)

by GloriaMundi



Category: Promethean Age Series - Elizabeth Bear
Genre: 5 Things, C17, C19, C20, C21, Historical, Iambic Pentameter, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five nights out (and one night in) that Kit Marley, in various company, probably didn't enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Nights Out (and One Night In)

**Author's Note:**

> If **petra** had not been my beta, I might still be dithering (and I might've gifted it to her as a New Year's Resolution!) Thanks also to KM for instabeta with cocktails.

 

### 1\. Hallowmas 1610: Whitehall

 

The cushion under her haunches isn't thick enough: Annie fidgets, trying not to elbow the men bracketing her. This latest play of Will's -- if she is honest -- does not hold her attention. She cannot see herself anywhere on the stage. Miranda's a mere child (she sees some of Judith's manner in the girl, and the lad playing her has surely watched and learnt from sisters of his own); Ariel ... Ariel, all gilded paint and pale powder, enrobed in billowing silk, is neither woman nor man. Ariel, she thinks, stands for Kit.

Kit Marley sits at her right, unblinking (she can't see his _otherwise_ eye, and is glad of it, for that eye sees her all too clear), intent on the drama playing out before them. Kit who is warm, solid, unshaking as Will is not. Kit who looks young enough to be her son. Her dead, her murdered son. What must people think, to see the three of them? A palsied greybeard and his country wife, keeping company with this fine young lord. Kit's dressed himself as humbly as he knows how, but still, his looks and his bearing proclaim him ... what? An elf-knight? Annie smirks to herself. An overdressed student, more like.

She wonders what he's thinking; what clever sophistry's tumbling in his head. Whether he sees what she sees: a creature of air and magic bound to an ageing master, ceaselessly begging his liberty; an ageless sprite anchored to earth, to a small and captive life.

Yet Will loves him still.

The scene ends, and while the lads are shifting the backcloth Kit leans across her (a quick apologetic smile) and murmurs to Will, "Thy Prospero's my Faust, then: named fortunate and happy, yet is not."

Will snorts. "Thy Faust's a young man, with a young man's flaws. Prospero's old: his wisdom weighs him down."

Annie can feel Will's hand trembling against her arm: he tucks it fiercely under his own knee, to still it. The palsy has been bad, this winter, and the possets that Kit brings from Faerie are less effectual than they were. His hand is too crabbed to hold a pen, some mornings; his step halt and lame. Climbing the stairs to these seats had been like climbing a mountain, for Will. But he bears it, and so she must bear it too.

"He's no more years than thee or me --"

"Ssssh!" Annie hushes them both, because Prospero is striding back onto the stage (old, but hale in his age) and besides, Kit's clumsy protest (his knack with words deserting him, for once) makes her throat ache.

She cannot think there'll be another play, after this. No more journeys to London, for sure: though Will refuses to admit it, the long road from Stratford wearied him more than ever before. If she ever sits between these two again -- her husband and her husband's love -- to watch a play, it won't be in a fancy Southwark theatre, but in some squire's hall in Warwickshire.

She won't miss London. She's not a young woman any longer, either. She's buried a son and married two daughters; she's older than Will, whose head nods a moment before he catches himself and sits straighter. She's older than Kit, for that matter, though Kit Marley won't grow old. He'll live to mourn them both. (At least, Annie likes to think that Kit'll mourn her when she dies.) They have come to a comfortable understanding, the two of them, leagued against their dear Will when he's his own worst foe.

There are goddesses on the stage now, or spirits in goddess-guise: their dress is rich and strange as anything at Court. Annie sits forward, interested. At last she sees herself in this fey tale. Lord knows Will's written her into a dozen plays, one way or another: she's been maiden, mother, crone. She has seen herself (a turn of phrase or flash of temper) in Kate the shrew, in Cleopatra the queen, in Juliet's Nurse. Now her Will has made her Ceres, Juno, Iris. Has made her a spirit's false conjuring.

Kit's hand comes to rest, idly if he ever did aught idly, on her arm. It's a kindness, and she wants to rail at him for it. But this is not the place. The raillery, the ranting, the fine words and passionate protests, belong down there on the stage, beyond the blurring of her sight. She has no voice here, and Kit comforts her because he knows it.

Later, they'll to supper; later, she will bid her husband to bed, and Kit will stand awkward for a moment before he bows, and kisses her hand, and turns away to that _otherwise_ place. Later still, the two of them on the long cold road back to Stratford. And one day Kit will come to them, to Will's deathbed and perchance her own, and still be as bright and young as Ariel.

He presses his handkerchief (fine lawn) into the curl of Annie's palm, and leans against her, warm and solid. It's scant comfort, but she cannot afford to scorn it. After all and everything that's passed between them, that's stayed between them, she cannot hate him: for his love is hers as well.

The play, at last, is drawing to its end. The old magician sinks his books full fathom five, turns from them to a simpler life: o, he is Will for sure. What will the magician do, without his books, without his familiar sprite? What will the playmaker do, without his plays?

Ariel at last is freed. She cannot imagine such a spirit's liberty. Perhaps he'll bide to watch his once-master become merely mortal, old and frail and doomed to die. Perhaps he'll flee to summer skies and never once look back.

Will's chapped lips brush Annie's cheek. He must taste the salt there, but he does not flinch. His hand, quite steady now as though Prospero's surrender of his art has passed some strength to his creator, seeks out her own, his fingers twining hers. Kit leans forward, drawn by this final scene, leaving the two of them to one another: and Annie squeezes her husband's hand and takes solace of her own mortality.

 

### 2\. 30th May, 1693: Dorset Gardens

The tiring-room backstage is busy as ever, mirrors and candle-light, wigs on their stands, silk and velvet laid out carefully for the costume-changes: from the direction of the stage came the scrape of a fiddle and the rude bellow of a trumpet as the orchestra battered away at Mr Purcell's latest score. Tom, not yet dressed and still clammy from running halfway across the City, was on his belly on the floor. "Where's my bloody wig?" he demanded of no one in particular, rummaging beneath the table, finding and losing stockings, shoes, a rag stiff with paint, an extravagant bundle of bosom.

"On the stand, last I saw," said Mr Moore, leaning closer to the candle (Tom could smell hair scorching) to rouge himself to a semblance of drunkenness.

"No it's not," said Tom flatly, slithering out and hauling himself to his feet. "I swear there's a curse on this damned --"

"Ssssh," said Bess at the door, gesturing fiercely. "There's someone on the stairs."

Tom grabbed the nearest shirt (his own was soaked with sweat) and dragged it over his head. Last week there'd been a Duke, and a brace of ladies-in-waiting, come to see the actors and dancers after the play was over. Tom'd missed that chance of patronage by cause of being delayed in the house of office, racked with cramps. Cursed, he was sure of it. Props and costumes gone astray; young Roger fallen from the proscenium, with a cracked collarbone and a tendency to start at shadows; the lights flaring and smoking out of turn; now Tom's bloody wig, a horsehair monstrosity that weighed as much as a cat, vanished without a trace. And instead of hunting down the damned thing, he must smile and bow and turn a pretty smile on these nobles who'd come backstage, against all custom and courtesy, _before_ the play's commencement.

There were two of them, a lady with dark hair and a queenly walk, and a younger fellow sliding in behind her as though he didn't want to be seen. Bess dipped them a curtsey, and smiled sweetly at the man, but he went straight past her with never a look though she was pretty enough. Well, some men had other fancies. Tom straightened his shoulders, bit his lip redder, tilted his head just so (coy, but never blatant), and fumbled at the laces of his shirt.

"Were you looking for Mr Betterton?" said Bess, polite and diffident and right behind the two as they prowled into the narrow room. "Or perhaps Mistress Kennie? I believe they'll be back very shortly: the play will start soon, and --"

The dark lady waved a hand at Bess, and Bess fell silent, though her mouth was still moving. The lady and her companion did not speak, to Bess or Mr Moore or one another; they stood there right in everyone's way, looking around at the company, and the company ebbed and flowed around them as though they were painted scenery. Tom was fascinated, and he stared too long. A moment later the young man's eyes locked with his own, and he felt fresh sweat starting up and down his spine.

The man frowned. He was young and well-made, though rather shorter than Tom, who'd grown half a foot since his fifteenth birthday. Fine clothes, good leather boots; fair-skinned, auburn-haired, his eyes -- there was something odd about his eyes. Behind him, Bess was still mouthing words, like an actor learning his lines. She made no sound.

The dark lady came over to Tom, set one long finger beneath his chin, and made him look at her. He didn't _want_ to look at her. There was something wrong about her.

"What's your name, lad?" she said, and her voice was warm honey and autumn sunshine: "Tom," he said at once, without exactly meaning to say anything at all.

"What fine grey eyes you have, Tom. I suppose you take after your father?"

"Morgan --" said the man, laying a hand on the lady's green velvet sleeve: she paid it no heed, but arched her neat plucked eyebrows at Tom, inviting him to answer.

"I don't know, my lady," said Tom, more honest than he'd have liked. "I never knew him."

The lady -- Morgan -- seemed satisfied with that. "And what part is it you'll play, tonight?"

"My lady, I am to be Oberon, the Faerie King."

"Excellent!" said Lady Morgan, with great good humour. She winked at her companion. "See thou, Kit? He's half already to his heritage."

"Morgan, he's a mere mortal -- Tom, tell me." The man stepped closer, his hand still on Morgan's sleeve, as though to stay her. "Do you go to church, of a Sunday? Is your immortal soul," a greater weight on those words, "bound for salvation?"

Tom did not feel compelled to answer, as he had with the lady: but 'twas a simple enough question, and the fellow seemed sincere for all his fine voice -- an actor's voice, Tom thought -- and his fancy old-fashioned garments. "I do go to hear the sermons, sir," he said. "As for my soul, I cannot say."

"Yet you would wish the chance of heaven?"

As though from far away, Tom heard Mr Betterton call "Ten minutes!" It was like a blast of cold air after an evening in the tavern: it woke him as if he'd slept.

"Sir," he said, firm and civil, "I must find my wig: I must -- I haven't time to talk of souls and heaven with you now." And then, because the man was pretty as a girl and rich besides, "perhaps we might speak afterwards?"

The man stepped back, looking down at the grimy floor. "Afterwards," he said. "If it's not too late."

"Tom, is this your wig?" said the dark lady.

There it was in her hand, black curls spilling over her pale fingers like some trophy. "I -- yes," said Tom. "Where did you -- Thank you, my lady."

"And how should you like," murmured Lady Morgan, stepping closer, looking up at him from eyes that glinted green as a cat's in the candlelight, "to wield a finer magic than before, on stage tonight? You've no need for fireworks and flimmery, sir: you have it at your fingertips, if you only know the trick of it. See ..." She handed Tom the wig, and took his free hand in hers, leaning over it like a gypsy fortune-teller or that witch in the Scottish play. Her breath was hot on his palm, and the heat spread like fever in his veins.

"Magic's woken in your blood," she whispered, "there to call on as you wish; truly be a Faerie king, show them marvels never seen. Come to me when all is done. Shall take you to --"

"Morgan!" said her companion, loud as a slap: he paled when the lady swung round, hound-fierce, to snarl at him. For the second time in ten minutes Tom felt himself abruptly woken from some dream. He shook out the wig and turned towards the nearest mirror -- Nick was nearly done with his paint -- to don it. Behind him, his strange visitors were arguing, fiercely and not quite audibly, like the buzzing of bees in a hive. "Five minutes!" called Mr Betterton, and Tom bundled up Oberon's long green velvet robe under his arm and stole the stick of greasepaint from Nick's hand.

"Mr Lynn! Are you not ready, sir?"

"Your pardon, Mr Betterton," said Tom. "I was --" He gestured at his strange visitors, but they had left without a word of farewell. Tom scowled. "I'm sorry," he told Betterton. "Two minutes, if you please."

Later, they'd said. Afterwards. When all is done.

Outside, the orchestra was striking up the overture. The curtain would be rising slowly to reveal the Faerie Court, where he would reign tonight.

 

### 3\. 19th March 1859: Paris

 

I will put this to paper: God knows it's hard enough to explain what I want for dinner, let alone what happened to me the other night.

I was working at the Bastille -- the Opera. It's good employment for a deaf man. I remember what it sounded like, all that screeching and yodelling and nonsense. I don't have to listen to it any more. I just show the gentlemen and the ladies (and the _women_, ah, the women: they make me feel young again) to their seats, their boxes; bring them champagne (or that nasty Italian piss) when they ask for it; tidy up after them (and you'd be surprised what they leave behind sometimes); and once the opera's begun I can do as I please.

Except the other night. I was in charge of the boxes to the left of the auditorium. Monsieur Gounod's new bit of nonsense, _Faust_, was having its premiere, and all the rich folk were there to see and be seen. (Not, you note, to _listen_. The applause was luke-warm. I may not be able to hear the sound of clapping hands, but at the end of a good night the whole building trembles. This, you see, was not a good night.)

All of the boxes were taken, of course. Bankers and ministers, merchants and soldiers. That fellow Baudelaire and his coterie were there, and I blush to recount the goings-on in _their_ box. And there was a German gentleman, Herr Morgenstern, with a companion whose name did not appear on my list.

I was not born yesterday. I could see what the young man was to Herr Morgenstern; see it in the way they leaned towards each other, the way Herr Morgenstern's hand lingered on his companion's arm, the way they smiled. It revolted me: but it was not my place to remark upon their disgusting intimacy, nor to serve them with any less civility than the other guests in the boxes to the left of the stage.

Their box held only the two of them: they would be less work than the others. Once I had delivered bottles and platters and glasses to those that wanted them, I made my way to the gallery -- just by Herr Morgenstern's box, which was the last on that side -- pulled out my little folding stool, and took up my place for the performance, waiting for the lights to dim so that I could take my book from my pocket and read awhile. It is another benefit of deafness, that I am not easily distracted by noise. Even the loudest music -- even a symphony by Beethoven! -- is no more than a vague rushing in my ears, like the sea.

The strange thing was, I could _hear_ Herr Morgenstern speaking. Though perhaps it was not quite hearing, for I certainly could not hear the sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments, or the chatter of the audience, or Jacques' colourful language when he dropped a laden tray. Nor could I hear the crash of that tray, the crystal shattering, the round sound of the tray as it spun and settled. (I have not always been deaf. I remember these things.) But when Herr Morgenstern's lips moved, his words came clear to me. He was speaking in English, not in French, but I have good English though sometimes I pretend not to understand when it is spoken to me.

:If you wish to attend a Mass, Kitten, you've only to ask.:

The mignon's pretty face was turned towards his master. He spoke, but I could not see his mouth to read the shapes of his words.

:Your Murchaud may not care for such things, but I can bear the name of the Divine. ... No, 'tis no favour at all, to 'company you to a performance that would please us both.:

The young Englishman (I thought he must be English, from his garish attire and his manner and their speech) shook his head. When I edged my stool to the right, I could see that he was smiling. He said something about a soul: someone without a soul, and something about music.

:Why, Cristofer, dost ask me?:

Herr Morgenstern was amused, so Cristofer laughed too. His eyes glinted: I wondered if he saw me watching. I did not want to be seen by them. I wanted to be invisible. I scowled down at the orchestra, so that I would not be witness to the sight of Morgenstern's hand caressing his mignon's throat, there above the ill-tied cravat where the vein ran blue beneath fair flushed skin.

:Thou hast a soul,: said Morgenstern. :Not bartered, lost or forfeit: dost hold it still.:

The young man rolled his shoulder as though it pained him: no accident, I thought, that the movement dislodged Morgenstern's long-boned hand from its work. He said something, and gestured at the stage: the red velvet curtain was rising, the opera about to begin.

:That was not thy bargain,: said Morgenstern gently. :Nor Will's.:

Cristofer did not reply. He leant forward, his elbows propped on the rail, staring down as Barbot began to sing. This Cristofer was a man of sentiment, I could tell: amused, outraged, elated, mournful by turns. Herr Morgenstern, though, seemed more interested in his companion than in the antics of the singers. He watched his young English friend: and I watched him, for there was something about him that drew the eye. I suppose he was handsome enough, in that blond blue-eyed fine-skinned German way: though knowing him for what he was I found him disfigured by his vice. He would have made a fine actor, or perhaps a singer, with his looks and his charm. I did not care for his appearance. It was his voice -- a voice that I could hear as I had not heard any for years -- that beguiled me.

A hand beckoned peremptorily from the next box, the party of bankers and their mistresses. I hastened to ask their pleasure: more wine, of course. They would be reeling by the interval, and I hoped that there would be none of the sort of bad behaviour that I was charged to discourage.

By the time I returned to my stool, Herr Morgenstern was sitting much closer to his companion, almost touching. Unlike the bankers' women, they were intent on the opera: Balanqué was on stage now, got up like a devil, the ugly old sot.

:Loved me ere we met, Kitten.:

The Englishman bowed his head, as pretty a play of acquiescence as any I'd seen on stage. He murmured something, or so I thought.

:Aye, loved thy Will too: and love thy Prince, who hath no soul.:

I could not see Cristofer's mouth, but his gesture spoke plain: and me?

:Thy soul:, said Morgenstern, :is safe. And never doubt that thou art loved.:

I had seen enough. _Heard_ enough. I could not bear to watch them paw one another. I went to harry the bankers: and though the opera was not half done and I did not see Herr Morgenstern and his Cristofer leave, their box was empty when next I passed.

 

### 4\. 6th February 1901: Margate

You do not always remember how it has been, when the spirits come: but you remember that evening, and will not forget it until the day you die.

You felt the itching presence of those lesser sprites, demanding your attention, flickering at the edge of your vision, cruel and playful and deceitful. Your eyes were closed, the better to see with, and with your _otherwise_ sight you saw the parlour lit with a soft pearly light, dim but sufficient to show you Mrs Martin and Mr Piper and Mrs Green -- holding hands, heads bowed, beset by nightmare -- and, too, the man slumped in the high-backed chair before the window. His eyes reflected flames, though there were only embers in the fireplace.

Mrs Martin had been reading Shakespeare again, and was eager to speak with the spirit of the great playwright. Your fingers barely touched the planchette, yet it spun and sped about the board. IAMWILIAMSHAKESPERETHOUHASTCALLEDMEFROMTHEVASTYDEEP. (Mrs Martin sighed at that, and made as though to speak: but Mr Piper clasped her hand more tightly, and she stayed silent.)

You did not feel the weight of a spirit's presence; only the flittering chattering busy-ness of those playful (yet not innocent) beings that infested every sitting. The sprites were playing with Mrs Martin and you did not wish to be part of their game. Yet you measured your breath, and calmed your mind, and tried to be nothing but a channel for something more.

The man in the chair was drumming his fingers on the embroidered arm-cover You felt his irritation like an ache.

"Ask him," intoned Mr Piper, "if he ever wrote with another author -- if the plays were truly his own." He spoke as if the spirits would not attend to any but yourself. As if they would not clutch onto his words, his thoughts, and twist them into falsehoods.

But Mrs Martin paid you, and so you framed the question more respectfully, and murmured it to whoever might be listening.

_'Tis all a farce,_ came a voice you had not heard before. (You did not hear it then, not with your body's ears; but you knew what had been said.) _A conjuring of fools. Come, mistress; do you ask for a pen and paper, and I'll guide your hand and write you truth._

"Who are you?" you said aloud, opening your eyes. It was odd that nobody had chosen to sit in the chair by the window, though it was the most comfortable seat in the room. It was odd that Mrs Green had chosen to perch on the piano-stool rather than occupy that chair.

They were all looking at you. Staring. Greedy. Wet-eyed Mrs Martin, and predatory Mr Piper, and Mrs Green, whose thoughts were quiet and hidden from you. The planchette bucked beneath your hand, and you snatched your fingers away like a child who has touched the stove-top and been burnt.

_A pen, mistress,_ prompted the man in the empty chair.

You closed your eyes, just for a moment, and saw him clear. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, dressed in black -- in mourning? -- of an old-fashioned cut. He leant forward, and though the room was dim his right eye caught light and glinted like a cat's. _Take up thy pen, and I shall write._

"Will somebody fetch me pen and paper?" you asked, keeping your voice a gentle murmur. You did not wish to cross the man in the chair. His sheer presence made you shiver. You could feel the force of his personality, his will. You had never encountered a ghost so tangible; and to this day you have not met another.

A fountain-pen was found, and a quantity of fine writing-paper. You picked up the pen in your left hand. (A succession of schoolmistresses tried to make you use your right, but it has always been easiest to follow your nature, especially when the writing is automatic.) You thought to write a line or two, to set the ink flowing, but as soon as you set nib to paper you were writing, quickly and neatly, in an unfamiliar italic hand.

_I am Kit who knew well my Will;_ (you wrote, the capital deliberate and the punctuation measured, as though the man paused and sought for words). _'Twas not Will who spoke a moment past, but wicked faeries who will flee this place or feel my wrath._

At this point, you remember, you were aware of a sudden silence; not a silence in the room itself, though that was quiet enough save for the rasp of Mrs Green's breath and the fall of an ember in the grate, but a silence of the mind, a surcease of that low babble that had vexed you since the sitting began.

_Was not Will only who did pen his plays. I helped: a word here, there a phrase, a thought ... The greater part of them, in truth, was Will's._

Your hand was already cramping, and you set down the pen to flex your fingers. The ink gleamed wetly in the dim light. The man in the chair would be scowling at you if you closed your eyes. When you picked the pen up again, it was in your right hand.

"Who are you?" demanded Mrs Martin, leaning over you to read what you had -- what your hand had written. "Why should we credit your words?"

The pen was moving again in your hand, the man's eyes fixed on yours. _I am Kit who was Will's friend; who was with him at his death; where his soul rests I know not. I hoped that I might find him here. _

The pen faltered.

_He loved me, and I him; he was_

"Begone!" cried Mrs Martin, and tore the paper from beneath your hand, and crumpled it. "Mr Piper, the curtains: open the curtains!"

You fell back in your chair, quite overwhelmed by everything you felt; everything he felt, loss and love and rage and hope and loneliness and ... More vivid, his emotions, than your own had ever been.

The dull February light streamed in and cast the room in lead. Crumpled paper burnt smokily in the fireplace. The broken pen bled ink over the table-cloth. The chair was empty whether you opened your eyes or not.

 

### 5\. 2nd June 1953: Hell

**Scene: a comfortable house, in Hell** **   
** ** Characters: KIT, a poet; MURCHAUD, a Prince.**

**  
** MURCHAUD: How is it thou didst learn of this device?  
KIT: You're not the only one who sojourns in  
the world of iron. Nay, I do not care  
that you find lovers -- liaisons -- amongst  
Promethean mages, devils, mortals, Fae:  
I think I have your heart.  
MURCHAUD:                 For what's worth.  
KIT: I came to Hell for thee!  
MURCHAUD: And I for thee.  
I have no soul, and so my Hell is less  
A torment than thine own.  
  KIT:                            Though this is Hell  
'tis lesser Hell than Faerie without thee.  
Besides, I was not innocent of Hell --  
MURCHAUD: One visit might be accidental; twice  
Doth beg the question of what tempts thee here.  
KIT: Temptation? No. 'Twas love, for Will and thee,  
Both tithed in cruel transaction to Hell.  
MURCHAUD: You led Will home; but here you rest, with me.  
KIT: I whored myself to set Will Shakespeare free.  
… No matter. Let me tend to this machine --  
This _television_, by which we may  
See what transpires in the mortal world.  
MURCHAUD: And are these visions true?  
KIT:                                                 They only show  
What passes at this moment, in a place  
Where Television's eyes are set to watch.  
MURCHAUD: This alchemy is strange. I like it not.  
KIT: 'Tis a Promethean thing, a Darkling Glass  
For mortals. _Tele_, distant; _visio_,  
To see. And we'll see Westminster, where now --  
MURCHAUD: The iron makes me ache. How does this work?  
KIT: I've no idea. Do you sit there, and I'll  
Rotate this dial 'til the picture's clear.  
Behold!  
[_a clamour of coronation bells_]  
MURCHAUD: The world it shows is grey and drear.  
KIT: 'Tis lesser magic than that Glass you know.  
Arrange thyself, I'll sit beside thee -- there --  
and thou and I will watch as England's queen  
is crowned: Elizabeth, and may she be  
e'en half the queen her namesake was.  
MURCHAUD:                                      I fear  
the olden ways of England are no more.  
This queen shall rule a land of iron cold.  
She bears not Arthur's blood.  
KIT:                                  Nor Lancelot's.  
\-- Hast ever thought that thou might breed a queen?  
MURCHAUD: I wed one: that were royalty enough.  
KIT: Thy mother was a queen, thou art a prince --  
MURCHAUD: Mere duke here --  
KIT:                                   -- thou art nothing mere.   
See the young queen's fair countenance:  
Her bearing is most royal, though her robes  
fall heavy.  
MURCHAUD: I am but a Duke of Hell,  
Vassal to Lucifer, whom thou dost love.  
KIT: I did, in _Faustus_, write his story new,  
And he did conquer history for me.  
He spared my soul when I did offer it --  
MURCHAUD: We have a love in common, he and I.  
KIT: I came to Hell for love of thee, not him.  
That love, and thine for me, doth counterweigh  
Hell's heavy dolour, infinite despair,  
Which lies upon my soul; which soul craves thee  
And where thou art, my love, cannot be hell.  
See, now, the Queen is crowned.  
at Westminster, with pomp and rite and song.  
MURCHAUD: 'Tis half the pomp attended her namesake.  
KIT: I was not born when Good Queen Bess was crowned.  
MURCHAUD: Yet hast thou lived the centuries since she  
Did pass; and we shall watch this new queen reign  
And age and die, and eke her lawful heir.  
KIT: Why, then, is history a mere parade,  
And thou and I eternal audience?  
Are we but witnesses as each age rides  
In triumph past our windows, deaf to all  
Our pleas? May we not step into the crowd,  
Turn the cortege with words or blows or acts?  
MURCHAUD: Why, this is Hell: and yet eternity  
Would be a greater burden borne alone.

 

### 6\. 23rd April next year: the Globe

This is Southwark, and this is the Globe, but not as I first knew it: a fair clean copy of the theatre that staged so many marvels (and, truth told, a mort of dismal nonsense).

The company I keep -- a crippled Mage, a violet-haired chimera -- is not the company I was accustomed to, in those days. Christ knows what Will's London would've made of them. Matthew's scars are mostly hidden, and the ink is gone. Lily might be any maid (or harlot, in that garb), though dye never bestowed such hues on Elizabeth's -- the first Elizabeth's -- court.

By invitation only, this evening's play, and Matthew said they might have filled the theatre ten times over. Today would be Will's birthday, had he lived. I fancy for a moment that he's watching us here; watching as the audience gathers for his newest work. Hah! Fanciful indeed: Will's soul is bound and sleeping 'til Judgement Day.

A queen sits in state, old and white of hair, her face more lined than ever Elizabeth's was beneath the paint and lead. I remember her coronation, in shades of grey. She doesn't care much for the theatre, or so say the newspapers; is happier with horse and hound, with children and grandchildren, with the sorry remnants of monarchy that are left over from revolution and reform.

Another Queen sits scant feet from me, and tips a wink from her loden eye when I glance at her. I send her back a smile without spite, for she loved Will too, as much as her nature inclines her to love.

I sit still and silent, meeting no other eye, casting a subtle glamour of inconspicuosity. Glances slide off me and away. This is Matthew's triumph; this whole spectacle's the work of Doctor Matthew Szczegielniak, vaunted discoverer of a whole sheaf of crumbling pages that'd proved to be centuries-forgotten plays and poems, with new works by long-dead hands. (Easy enough to have them found, locked in lead, behind a crumbling chimney-breast.) Matthew is uneasy as the centre of attention. He looks handsome indeed, broader of shoulder, longer of leg in his charcoal-coloured suit: the shirt, cerulean, was my insistence.

"... my graduate students," he's saying. This is my cue. "Kit Marley and Lily Wakeman, let me introduce you to Dr Jacqueline Foster."

The woman speaking to Matthew, a hatchet-faced beldam with keen grey eyes, looks me up and down: I am dismissed. Perchance it's the rose-coloured lovelock (Oxford's mode once, Lily's work now, the forfeit of a wager lost: my skin warms, treacherously, at the mere thought of that wager.) Or perchance this Doctor Foster takes my seeming for my self: clad all in faded black, my hair scraped back in a queue, my bard's cloak abandoned at our lodgings. In truth I might be the student I once was.

Dr. Foster turns back to Matthew, continuing her discussion as though Kit and Lily (Lily! Rustling black skirts and violet hair, a plethora of paint, pierced lip and brow and lobe and nose; there are more strangenesses beneath the lace and velvet, and I know them intimately.)

Dr Foster is talking to Matthew about the new-found plays. "And it's certain they are William Shakespeare's own work?"

"Within reasonable doubt," says Matthew, tipping me a glance. "The manuscripts have been authenticated: they were written in the first decade of the seventeenth century. We've run 'Love's Labour's Won' through computer analysis, and there's a ninety-seven percent probability that it's by the author of 'Love's Labour's Lost' -- though whether that was Will Shakespeare of Stratford or not, Dr Foster, will always be a matter for scholarly debate."

"Of course," Lily interrupts, brazen and blithe, "it wasn't just Shakespeare's stuff in the box, was it, Dr Szczegielniak? There's some Nashe, some Watson -- even some Marlowe."

I stretch a smile over my teeth, and mutely vow vengeance. Lily's ticklish.

"Marlowe?" says Dr Foster. "Wasn't he long-dead by the time Shakespeare penned his greatest works?"

"Perchance," I say sweetly, "some admirer deemed his words worth preservation."

Dr Foster titters. She's about to make some witty remark at my expense, and I haven't the patience to brush it off. My hand clenches: Matthew, familiar with my tells of temper, looks at his watch. "Five minutes to curtain," he says firmly. "C'mon, kids; let's find our seats."

Sometimes Matthew makes me feel like Methuselah. Sometimes the years weigh heavy on me. There are tales I'll never tell them, scandals crumbled into dust, secrets that I'll not unlock even now. (Would Dr Foster be shocked, did I tell her of Will's love for me? Would Matthew, who's shocked by so many of my sins?) I've outlasted everyone who knew me; my rival playmakers, the men who made of me a cage, the mortals that I loved, my Elf-prince snuffed out like a candle by the Prometheans. Even Lucifer has left me now.

_Enough self-pity, Cristofer_. I have what I have, and I've had my fill of lovers who make me seem a mayfly. Matthew and Lily do not think me old: forget I shall outlive them too. _Carpe diem_. I pout at Lily, who blows me a kiss. Matthew blushes. Later, I shall make him blush more.

Our seats are good ones, of course -- better than the Queen of England's, though not so stately -- and infinitely more comfortable than the bare benches I recall from that other Globe. The lights are dimmed, and the actors step out on stage.

         A twelvemonth and a day hath passed full slow  
         since last I saw my love: the days did trudge  
         as sullen schoolboys to their lessons go:  
         But now my heart is free to seek its mate  
         to soar ...

The lights are low. If I dab moisture from my eye, there's none to see.

-end-


End file.
